Shards
by Joodiff
Summary: For once it's not Boyd who loses his temper... T-rated for language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

 _Result of a little prompt from Got Tea. Enjoy!_

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 **Shards**

by Joodiff

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The heated debate around the squad room's central block of desks is going nowhere. It's symptomatic of the entire Dean Street case, Grace thinks – infuriating and frustrating. Doing her best to ignore the rising volume of the irritable exchange taking place between the two men to her left, she studies the photograph of Jane Hughes temporarily affixed to the top edge of the evidence board with Blu Tack. There's very little room for the faded image anywhere else amongst the confusion of pictures, diagrams, and notes covering every square inch of the transparent surface. Three weeks, that's how long they've been meticulously combing through every scrap of available information about the unsolved forty-year-old double murder, and the stark reality is that they're no nearer making a breakthrough than the detectives who worked on the original 'sixties investigation were when the case was first archived.

Jane has been dead for over fourteen years. A hard-faced young woman of indeterminate age – actually in her early twenties at the time of the murders – stares back at Grace with such a look of stony belligerence that it's almost impossible to warm to Boyd's controversial theory that she was every bit as innocent as she always claimed. Flinty grey eyes stare out from behind twin curtains of glossy dark hair, as if challenging the world to prove that she had anything to do with the murder of her former boyfriend and his wealthy fiancée.

Shirtsleeves rolled up, Boyd is on his feet again, pacing in the restless, edgy way that never bodes well for anyone. Grace shifts her attention to him just as he barks at Spencer, "For God's sake, man, open your bloody eyes. Jane was a _perfect_ scapegoat. Everyone _knew_ she'd been dumped by Abbott, and everyone knew she was still furious about it months later."

"Doesn't mean she didn't do it," Spencer retorts. "You just don't want to consider – "

To the right of her, Eve murmurs, "Here we go again."

Glancing at the younger woman, Grace offers a sympathetic grimace in reply. There's been an increasing amount of friction between Boyd and Spencer in the last few days, most – but not all – of it linked to the unproductive investigation in hand. Two stubborn male egos belonging to men with disparate theories confined and clashing in a relatively small space while outside the temperature continues to rise and rise as early summer really starts to take hold of the capital.

"What about Campbell's alibi, though? I mean, no-one believed it back then, so maybe we…" Stella says from the other side of the desks, trailing off and holding up her hands in meek surrender as both men turn their heads to glare at her. "Just a thought. Sorry."

"She's got a point," Eve chips in, earning herself instant inclusion in the double glare. "Oh, come on. Don't you think we're getting side-tracked by Jane?"

What she means, Grace thinks, is that Boyd and Spencer are getting side-tracked by Jane. Or at least, by their obstinate desire to prove each other wrong. Leaning back a fraction in her chair, she says, "Why don't we look at Campbell's wife again? She said he was at home with her all night, but according to the neighbours it wasn't uncommon for him not come home until the small hours of the morning."

"Thank you, Grace," Boyd says, heavy on the sarcasm. "What would we do without your incredible insight and your unfailing ability to state the bloody obvious?"

She quirks a disdainful eyebrow at him, refusing to be drawn by his bad-tempered needling. "Well, if you _want_ to keep blundering about in ever-decreasing circles…"

"At this fucking stage, working out who _didn't_ do it," he retorts, starting to pace again, "is almost as valuable as working out who _did_."

"You still can't just draw a line through Jane Hughes," Spencer insists, "and you know it. _Sir_."

Boyd comes to a sudden halt, stares straight at his subordinate. There's aggressive tension in his stance, a clear warning to anyone who knows him half as well as the long-suffering members of his team do. "Who's in charge of this investigation, _Detective Inspector_?"

Eve snorts, just loud enough for Grace to hear it. There's no doubt all the masculine posturing is starting to grate on her nerves. Grace shakes her head, "Boys, _boys_."

At least neither of them is childish enough to openly accuse the other of starting the current altercation. Boyd offers her a haughty glance, and Spencer grunts and stares down at the open file lying in front of him on the desk. There's a universal moment of surly silence that lasts until Boyd puts his hands on his hips and says, "So. Jane Hughes."

Spencer groans, mutters something inaudible.

He doesn't get away with it. Boyd pounces immediately. "Yes? You have something to say, DI Jordan?"

"What's the point?" Spencer demands. "You're not going to listen to me whatever I say, are you? You've made your mind up, and that's that. The rest of us are supposed to just fall in line without question."

The mood in the room is changing, Grace realises. It's becoming harsher and uglier. She can see it in Stella's silent, wide-eyed gaze, in the way Eve isn't looking at anyone. Before she can say a word, Boyd takes a single step towards Spencer, hands falling to his sides. There's something about the way he moves, loose-limbed and abnormally calm, that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. His bark is worse than his bite, everyone knows that, but when he does bite, he bites hard – and nine times out of ten he doesn't do it in the wild blaze of impulsive temper.

She stands up just as Spencer does. Keeping her voice quiet and firm, she says, "All right. That's enough. Why don't we all calm down and take a short break."

"You don't give the orders in this unit, _Doctor_ ," Boyd says, his attention all on Spencer, " _I_ do."

Controlled though he seems, he's spoiling for a fight now, and probably everyone in the room knows it. Even Spencer, who's advanced as far as the corner of the block of desks.

In a way, Grace understands. Trite as it seems, it's the age-old story of the old lion and the younger would-be usurper. The fierce, battle-scarred head of the pride trying to simply stare down the bold opportunist seeking to take his place. One day it might come down to teeth and claws, but not today. Not if she has anything to do with it. Compared to both the men, she's tiny, but it doesn't stop her from stepping between them. "Stop it, the _pair_ of you. You're behaving like kids in the playground."

It's Spencer who lashes out in an uncharacteristic moment of temper. Not at her, and not at Boyd, but at the half-empty carafe of water placed close to the edge of the desk. A single angry swipe of his arm sends it flying, its contents spilling in all directions. It hits the metal frame of the empty chair next to Grace and explodes into flying fragments of broken glass, the explosive noise of it shattering bringing both the other women in to room to their feet.

Grace feels a sudden sting to her cheek, raises her hand to the spot as she flinches away from the unexpected flash of white-hot pain.

" _Grace!_ " Spencer's voice, loud and urgent but seeming to come from a long way away.

"You fucking idiot," Boyd's voice.

"Grace! Grace?" Eve's.

She stares at her blood-streaked fingers in dull incomprehension. Can't quite make sense of what's just happened.

A flurry of movement, accompanied by a surprised and choked-off exclamation from Spencer, brings her back to herself. Boyd, grasping two handfuls of Spencer's tee-shirt, is barrelling the other man backwards, straight into the half-tiled concrete pillar behind him. There's an audible thud as Spencer's back hits the solid support. There's shouting, too, and yet more movement as Stella streaks across the room past them, and Eve rounds the desks at speed.

There's glass everywhere. Big shards and small slivers. On the floor, on the desks. Water, too.

Her knees go weak, threaten to buckle under her, but someone – Eve – seizes her elbow and guides her safely to a chair. She reaches up to her cheek again, feels the sticky wetness there, finally realises what's happened. A shard of glass from the broken carafe, not large, but very sharp, has sliced straight across her cheek.

"First Aid kit," Stella raps out, returning at a run with a medium-sized green plastic box that she all-but throws onto the desk next to Eve.

Boyd is shouting at Spencer, the words lost to Grace in the shock and general confusion. She can hear the raw anger in his voice, though, can see it in the way he bodily shakes the younger man. Incongruous though the image is, she's reminded of the feisty little terrier her uncle owned when she was a child, of the way it used to shake the rats it caught in the alley behind the squat, dark-bricked houses where several members of her extended family lived.

"Grace?" Eve's voice, calm and quiet, cutting through the chaos. "Are you okay?"

She nods, manages a weak, "Yes, I think so."

Cool fingers move over her throbbing cheek. "It's not deep. We can take you to hospital if you want, but – "

"No," she says, starting to gather herself together. "No, it's fine…"

Silent and pale, Stella is rifling through the First Aid kit. Grace wonders what she's thinking.

Another roar of voices brings her firmly back to herself. Boyd still has hold of Spencer, and for a ridiculous moment she focuses on the sharply delineated shoulder muscles clearly visible through the taut fabric of his mauve shirt. She's almost shocked by just how brutally powerful it seems he is, but then her gaze slides past him and her attention is caught and held by Spencer's twisted expression and what she can read there. Anger, fear, self-loathing. All sorts of terrible, complicated things.

Waving off her two helpers, Grace gets unsteadily to her feet, summons the effort required to bark, " _Boyd_."

His head whips round, and she can see the wild fury in him. It staggers her, for a moment, what's revealed in that split second. Not just his rage, but all the reasons for it – and none of them have anything to do with Spencer's previous edge of insubordination. No, what she can read in Boyd is much deeper and much, much more personal.

Again, she snaps, "Boyd."

It seems to work, seems to breach the towering walls of his anger and bring him back to the here and now, the reality of what's happened. His fingers unlock, and Spencer slides from his grasp.

"I'm fine," she proclaims, deciding that it's true. "Do you hear me? I'm _fine_."

Spencer takes a step forward. "Grace…"

"Go," she tells him, not caring who's supposed to be in charge. "Have an early lunch break. We'll talk later."

"Grace, I'm so, so sorry. I – "

Boyd turns on him again. "You heard her. Get the fuck out of here."

For a moment Grace is sure Spencer is going to hold his ground, is going to refuse to leave. Can't decide if she wants him to, or not. But it seems he's either not brave enough or not stupid enough to stay, because with a last haunted look he snatches his jacket from the back of his chair and exits the squad room without a single word to anyone. In his wake he leaves a strained, uncomfortable silence that drags until Eve instructs, "Stella, get a broom, will you? I'll deal with Grace while you clear up the mess. Be careful with the glass, though."

Then it's just the three of them. Sinking back down onto the nearest chair, Grace keeps her gaze on Boyd. "It was an accident."

He looks more shocked than she feels. "Jesus, Grace…"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Eve reassures them both, drawing up a chair. "It's a very vascular area, so there's a lot of blood, but it's really not a bad cut."

"Will it leave a scar?" Grace asks. It sounds inane. Vain, too.

"Shouldn't do, no."

"Stings," she complains as the probing fingers return, and at the dark look she sees Boyd cast after the departed Spencer, adds, "but it's fine."

"Hold still," Eve orders.

"Give us a moment, will you?" Grace says, instead of obeying. She holds Eve's gaze for a moment, willing her to understand. It takes a moment, but a brief, grudging nod is followed by a tactful withdrawal. Before Boyd can speak, Grace gestures towards the now-vacant chair next to her. "Sit."

"Grace…"

"You're a damned First Aider, aren't you?" she demands, and at his reluctant nod, adds, "Well, now's your moment to shine. Sit down and get on with it."

He doesn't move. "Eve would do a better job."

"Eve's not here. _You_ are."

Boyd seems to decide not to argue further, but the way he settles is grudging at best. Grace watches as he locates and dons thin latex gloves, then says, "Something like this has been brewing for days, and you know it. Spencer – "

" – is fucking lucky I didn't cave his thick, useless skull in."

"Stop it," she growls, not caring if her terseness infuriates him or not. "Spencer's been a pain in the arse all week, yes, but – guess what? – it's your job to deal with that in a mature, responsible way. _Without_ provoking him."

"Oh, so suddenly this," he gestures at her wounded cheek, "is all my fault."

"It was an accident," she repeats. "A silly, stupid accident that shouldn't have happened, but an accident nonetheless. When Spencer comes back, you're going to apologise to each other."

"Like _hell_."

"You _are_ ," she insists. "Pinning him up against the wall was _not_ the right thing to do. You're a DSI, for God's sake, and you're the head of this unit. It's your job to set an example, to gain respect by _giving_ respect, not by throwing your weight around."

His response is a sullen, "I was angry."

"You never learn, do you?" She shakes her head. "That temper of yours, Boyd, it's going to be your downfall unless you learn to control it. Sooner or later."

"Old news, Grace." His tone is derisive.

She knows how to cut through his defences. "Every time I think you're making some progress, you let me down."

It works. "Oh, come _on_ , that's not fair."

"So you didn't just fly at your DI?"

"I didn't do it because he was pissing me off, Grace, I did it because…"

"Yes?" she prompts, not ready to let the matter go.

Intense brown eyes study her for a long moment. He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

It does. She knows it does. "Boyd – "

"All right," he interrupts, gruff now. "You win. I'll apologise to him, but not before _he's_ apologised to _you_."

It's the best compromise she's likely to get from him, and Grace knows it. Less forceful, she says, "He already did… but okay. Deal?"

"Deal." Boyd surveys her for a moment longer. "Sure you don't want a doctor to look at that?"

She shakes her head. "Eve's a doctor. I trust her judgement."

"Hm."

"So?" she asks, after a pause. "Are you going to patch me up, or not?"

A second's thoughtful look is followed by a slight shrug. He opens a sterile package from the First Aid kit, extracts a swab and raises it to her cheek, warning, "This might hurt just a little bit."

It doesn't. Or perhaps she simply doesn't notice any extra discomfort amid the continuous sting of the wound. She's startled by how gentle his fingers are, can barely believe they belong to the same man who had Spencer pinned up against one of the basement room's supporting pillars only minutes before. His eyes flick up to hers, as if seeking some indication as to whether or not he's hurting her, and it's only then that she realises how close they are, how little space there is between them. Boyd seems to realise the same thing in the same instant, and for a split-second they freeze, a very different sort of tension than before spiking between them.

He's going to kiss her. Grace has never been as certain of anything in her life. Maybe something in her expression changes with the sudden knowledge, she's not sure, but for whatever reason the impossible, fragile moment abruptly shatters exactly like the carafe of water did before it. Boyd clears his throat, the sound unnaturally rough and harsh, leans back a palpable fraction as he instructs, "Hold that there."

Without thinking, she reaches up to press against the swab, and his hand drops away from her cheek. She knows the moment's gone, lost in an unwelcome instant of clear perception, and she looks away, not willing to risk finding unwanted answers in the depths of his dark eyes.

"Eve'll do a much better job than me," he says, as if it's explanation enough.

"Probably," she murmurs, forcing away a bitter pang she doesn't dare attempt to name. Another lost moment that could have changed everything. Another fork in the road where what is and what might have been diverge and head away from each other in totally different directions. She's used to it, and she's not.

Stella rejoins them in a clumsy clatter of doors, broom in one hand, bucket in the other. She doesn't look at Boyd as she asks, "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Grace says. It's becoming a hollow, meaningless mantra.

Boyd grunts and gets to his feet. "Sit there until Eve gets back. Stella, get this mess cleaned up."

"Sir."

There's a snap of rubber gloves being removed, another grunt, and then he's striding away, heading for his office. Silent and still, Grace watches him go. Like Spencer's flash of temper, their unanticipated moment of private drama's over. For now.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
